The Many Voices of Dexter
by DangerDanger
Summary: A collection of short pieces - drabbles, one-shots - exploring the various characters of the Dexter series. First up, Doakes! Warning: DARK, plus spoilers from Seasons 1 & 2.
1. Uncaged

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2!!

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Dexter series and make no profit from writing this._

_AN: This will be a collection of short pieces (drabbles, shorts, one-shots and whatnot) inspired by the characters and situations from the "Dexter" series. Each piece is not a chapter, but rather a stand-alone piece, although some may have several parts. WARNING: SPOILERS for SEASON 2. Also, mature content, strong language._

_This first installment is my take on Doakes and his background, titled "Uncaged". Mostly inspired by the series with a hefty dash of book-Doakes, plus my own twist. You'll have to let me know what you thought - Refreshing? Tart? Even a bit too strong for your taste? _

_x x x x_

"Stay away from me."

I meant those words, but not the way Morgan took it.

Morgan cutting up that drug-dealer didn't repulse me, and that was the problem. I didn't _need _to hear that shit. My own reasons.

Pacing the few feet of free space I had in that cage didn't do much to distract me from what was happening on the other side of that plastic. Morgan was out there, getting off on some whacked out shit.

Might as well come clean. You see, the sick thing was, I didn't want him to stop. I was actually _jealous_ of that psycho. Andthat pissed me off, almost more than the cage. Almost. You see, I didn't need any reminders of the fact that I had my very _own_ sick fuck locked away inside of me to deal with.

Yes, a part of me liked it. Not the killing. Just like I told Morgan I'm not a killer. What I liked was remembering all that psycho shit I'd done in the past. I liked that a lot. Felt good. Morgan's little slice-them-up party next door brought it all to the surface. And I hadn't allowed myself to remember how good it felt, not in a long time.

That was why I left the military. I'd wanted to leave that shit behind me, the part of myself that liked that.

And so when I spotted the blood pooling near my feet just under the plastic sheeting, I had to turn away. Fucking lost it. Part of me was so angry. Not because he'd killed the man in cold blood. Not even because it brought up shit hidden deep inside I didn't want to deal with right now. No, I was angry because I'd never have what Dexter has now, the time, the will, and the freedom to act out my own twisted urges. To let my own beast out of its cage, just one more time.

I'm the one in the cage now, but my beast is out. Wanting a taste. Pretty frustrating if you ask me.

Like I said, it's not that those wet sounds Morgan was making as he cut into that body, severing feet, arms, and gods knows what else, really _did it_ for me. Thatsort of fucked up shit didn't really arouse me, though it did _remind _me. That was enough.

See, I'm a torture-man myself. Need a little something to whet my appetite before the kill. I'd cut them alright, but I cut them when they could still feel it. The screams. Those were nice. Begging, pleading, even better. Much better than listening theDexter sawing through dead flesh and bone. Torture always felt good to me, long as I can remember. In Black Ops, it was easy, didn't have to worry about how sick that was. Bad guys deserved a little pain. Being a cop, now that was hard. No playing around with the meat. Had to shoot to kill or turn them over to the Miami justice system.

So, when Morgan was finished and pulled that plastic sheet down, I lashed out. He took it the wrong way and I didn't bother to correct his mistake. Motherfucker put me in a cage, after all. He had some shit about his father to deal with. Don't we all. That almost made me like Morgan for a minute there.

But what I'd really like to do is enjoy myself a little if I ever get out of this cage. At Morgan's expense.

Too bad I have to turn him in if I do get out. He showed me his, so yeah, I want to show him mine. Fucking psycho would scream like a girl. Really is too bad.

Or, maybe I will show him a few of my own techniques after all. Just one or two things, to show that psycho that he does have feelings after all, even it's only pain, rage, fear. I wouldn't have to kill him to do that. It'd probably do us both good. If I could only get out of this fucking cage…

_AN: Just a bit of fun. Hope you enjoyed it. I may do Rita next._


	2. A Marriage of One

_AN: warning: Spoilers for Seasons 1&2! Okay, so no Rita this week. Instead, I had another fly buzzing in my ear._

_x x x x_

Once Dexter was told that he needed to accept all the different parts of his _self, _especially those parts he could not change, and move on from there_._ People would be better off, he was told, if they simply embraced who and what they were, and pulled together all the fragmented parts of themselves to form a whole self. A happier, healthier self. Luckily, he killed this person shortly thereafter.

If the Dark Passenger had a voice, which it sometimes did, its answer to this would be _no_. Not possible. The Dark Passenger doesn't see itself as a part of Dexter needing integration, and neither does Dexter.

_I am the other._

Not everyone sees this other part of Dexter. Or rather, this dark passenger that resides inside of Dexter. But Harry did. It was as if he could see the_ other _there, crouched in darkness, waiting to kill, when he looked into the depths of young Dexter's inquisitive gaze. Harry feared the Dark Passenger, called it _a monster _inside of boy, and that was good. Harry pleased the Dark Passenger, since he'd been instrumental, despite the fear and revulsion that eventually led to his decision to end his life, in keeping the Dark Passenger active, entertained, and ultimately …well-fed.

Incidentally, it resented Brian. Rejoiced in his death even as Dexter was as devastated as Dexter could be. The Dark Passenger didn't want to share.

Harry wasn't the only one who peered down the rabbit hole of Dexter's dark eyes and saw something to fear. A woman. Lila. She tried to accept him, even called the Dark Passenger "only human". The Dark Passenger didn't like this. This woman wanted Dexter for herself, her soul mate, she called him. It was doubtful that deeply-dead-inside Dexter even had a soul, since if he had, the Dark Passenger surely would have consumed it long ago. Dexter was empty inside and both he and the Dark Passenger liked it that way. Plenty of room.

The Dark Passenger didn't need to be accepted by Lila, or for Dexter toaccept his _needs,_ to become_ one_ with his inner darkness as some shrink or twelve-step directive dictated. None of that. It didn't need a sycophant. It needed an audience.

An audience of one.

And the Dark Passenger needed someone to struggle against when the moon was fat and full and it was starving for a kill. Someone to laugh along with at all the whimpers and gasps. Someone to ignore when the killing was done and all was wrapped up into boring little packages, as it turns over and curls up in the darkness to wait until the next time. Kind of like marriage. But with blood slides instead of wedding pictures.

Also, the Dark Passenger could care less if Dexter left the toilet seat up.


	3. To Catch a Killer

_AN: Sorry, still no Rita. Lundy had to have his say._

It was a set up.

Dexter Morgan wasn't coming in to give his_ opinion _on those blood slides. He was there to allow me to gauge his reaction to those slides.

I had my suspicions. More of a gut feeling, really, about Morgan. Not the female Morgan, of course, but her brother. My relationship with Deborah made that hunch inconvenient, but I couldn't _not_ follow my hunch. I couldn't_ not_ do my job even though she had the warmest pair of brown eyes I'd seen on a woman in a long time.

Actually, there was more to it than simply doing my job. This is why I loved my job. Pitting my mind against that of a depraved, clever killer. It took careful planning, strategy, and even a little trickery, to catch a serial killer, like a morbid game of chess. Not a game I ever wanted to loose.

As I mentioned before, bringing Dexter Morgan in to view the slides was all a set up, carefully designed to make him squirm, from the special agents who escorted him here from his apartment to the scowling Captain Matthews standing next to me when he arrived.

Matthews played his part well, years of wearing the role of hard-nosed cop had finally overtaken his personality. Now with one look he could make you feel like an insignificant and highly inconvenient piece of garbage. Even Morgan wasn't immune. He shifted beneath Matthews' steely gaze and rushed to don the gloves at the Matthews' barked command.

Despite Matthews' performance, I was the only one who knew that this was a set up. Except for maybe one other person, Dexter Morgan himself. He opened the box of slides and casually slid his gloved finger down the rows with a tinkling sound, then looked up at me and waited for me to speak. He appeared calm, collected.

As I stared into those dark, empty eyes of his, willing him to crack, I liked to think that there was brief flash of recognition there. A shared secret. He knew that I knew. That's the sort of thing that makes my job worth getting up in the morning for. Not such an easy task at my age. I have arthritis in my left knee and my lower back is painfully stiff when I wake in the mornings…but what am I going on about? I don't even tell Deborah those things and I'm sleeping with _her._

Perhaps I should mention that Dexter Morgan was different from any killers I'd seen so far. All serial killers are different, of course, but Dexter Morgan was somehow better. Better at hiding, better at killing, better at pretending, just…better. Usually, the subject of one of my infamous hunches would have cracked by now. Not Morgan. How inconvenient. He may have made me doubt myself, but I am never wrong. Too bad Adams doesn't know that. That hammerhead Deputy Director has always disliked me. My unconventional approach to catching a killer both unnerves and bothers the heck out of him. He simply can't fathom how I do it. Unfortunately, since the Morgan lead has taken longer than it should to suss out, he rushes in and demands results. Claims that I'm losing my edge along with my hair by letting Doakes walk, as if he has any room to talk in that department.

He believes that Sergeant Doakes is the killer. Everyone does. They ignore the obvious inconsistencies. Why would Doakes keep blood-slide trophies? He is no lab tech. It doesn't make sense. I could go on, but what it boils down to is that they, a bunch of old, white men, want Doakes to take the fall. He's arrogant, he's black and they don't like him or his prickly attitude toward his superiors. I don't bother to point all of this out to them. I'm not so young and naïve anymore. Plus, the killer would usually have slipped up and outed himself by now. Too bad Morgan isn't cooperating.

So in all actuality, bringing Dexter Morgan here was my last ditch effort. I was so sure he'd crack under the pressure that's been building. The Bay Harbor Butcher has been under constant investigation for months.

And what happened?

"Trophies," he stated matter-of-factly. No flinching or sweating. He politely answered questions regarding his and Doakes volatile relationship. He said that he'd always had his suspicions about Daokes. That was all. He didn't utter nutty, incriminating excuses. He didn't babble and rave about how the devil, speaking through his vacuum cleaner, told him kill all those evil people. Not that I would expect him to. I wasn't surprised. Like I said, he's different, better than that. How unfortunate.

So I did the only thing I could do, I watched Dexter Morgan, blood splatter expert and suspected serial killer, scurry out of that office clutching the slides close against his side and I closed my eyes briefly in resignation.

That's resignation, not defeat, mind you.

I'd have to wait until they found Doakes. If Dexter Morgan was going to be as cold, convincing and calm as only a psychotic killer could be, I'd have to rely on Doakes to prove his innocence.

I had an uneasy feeling about that. For it'd certainly be a shame to finally, after all this time, lose the game.

_AN: Lundy is so suave, I'm sure I didn't do him justice. Still I had to write this for the simple fact that the man is awesome. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, but only seven? If I'm to have playmates viewing my work, I need to know you're there, whether you're enjoying the ride or made ill by it. Reviews are like my blood slides. You need a collection to reminisce with if the need arises._


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